By George Sterling

Youth, with the morning eyes,
    Ever we ask in vain
For a day of your distant year—
    For an echo of its strain.
"The gull conies out of the mist
And goes to the mist" again."

Love, with your cruel gift
    Of the dear, exultant pain,
Why do the raptures end?
    Why do the tears remain?
"The spring awakens the flower;
The flower has gone with the rain."

Life, with your mellow fruit
    And the leaf's imperial strain,
Why must the air grow chill
    And the glowing autumn wane?
"The west-wind comes from the sea
And passes on to the plain."

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